You are fortunate, dear friends, that you can tell what happened with your lovers: the jests and laughter, all the words and joys. After my sweetheart put his hand to the knot of my dress, I swear that I remember nothing.   This timeless poem by Vidyā never fails to take my breath away. The beginning of the poem seems to invoke envy of those who remember the details of their lovemaking. That is, until the turn happens in the delightfully structured “knot of my dress,” which conjures something tied up and on the verge of being set loose. The last line strikes like a bolt of lightning, burning up all her friends’ cerebral memories into wisps of mundane dalliances. Ultimately, what we thought was connection…